


The Mad Magician

by GraydleRabbit



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal
Genre: Adopted Children, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Blood and Violence, Demons, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:22:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28402401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraydleRabbit/pseuds/GraydleRabbit
Summary: They said the magician lived in his tower with no one but himself, and then these three, strange shadows appeared.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 3





	The Mad Magician

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote half of this story the other night in a drunken stupor. 
> 
> Finished it today. 
> 
> Have some Arclight Angst

The strange man who visited the market daily with the request of three pounds of blood.

Blood of cattle, blood of fowl, blood of ewe, of deer. No matter the creature, no matter the rancidness of its source, from youngster to elder, the strange man came and asked for three pounds daily before trekking to his home in the depths of the murky woods with three bags of blood nestled in his satchel.

Tomorrow, he will return with the exact same request.

A newcomer of the market may find this unnerving and suspicious.

_Three pounds of blood?!_

They exclaimed.

He came in a garnished teal suit drenched with speckless, white, fluffy frills from the top to the bottom. Stainless gloves without a hint of dirt—without a hint of blood—laid over his palms with a monocle set over his left eye and a golden cane in his hand. His light blond hair was neatly and elegantly braided from the base of his roots to the tips of those ends, where they were capped with the most quality of twine; finally, an occasional top hat sat over his head to cover the sun overhead. A man of high class, he appeared to be, and yet he came asking for the most-foul of fluids, enemy to the flawlessly threaded clothing.

No matter the vender with his shady wares and less-than-desirable bench; with livestock bellowing and croaking a mere foot away, with maggots on the stand or flies chattering about, with guts and slabs strewn about in a haphazard manner. As long as the provisions were provided in a neat and orderly fashion, the man would purchase it all with the tip of his hat.

The mannerisms of this oddity of a fellow spoke little of his capabilities.

"Three pounds of blood of highest quality."

And then he would be on his way after the fulfillment of his simple request.

A few people would murmur out:

"That's the magician, Tron."

And newcomers remained unaware if the statement was a rumor or a fact.

The magician, Tron, who asked for three pounds of blood a day.

One could only ask: what was a magician to do with so much blood? What would a magician want with the blood of cattle, blood of fowl, blood of ewe, of deer? Three pounds of blood was minuscule by itself. It could barely fill a bowl. And spells and witchcraft could only entertain so much with a seemingly-random assortment ingredients. Hidden qualities, perhaps, inside this crimson fluid. Yet, why three pounds, specifically? Why every day for the past several years?

Some asked.

Most asked.

The magician Tron only smiled, and he said nothing else.

He packed his three pounds of blood on his white palms and be on his merry way, back into the woods where hence he came.

They would've accused him a madman.

* * *

In the depths of the thick brambles of the forest sat an old, crumbling tower.

They said a world-weary magician lived there, and he lived there alone for some time.

But in the darkness of the night, when the moon shined brightly with not a cloud in sight, lost travelers or brave youngsters could catch glimpses of sprawling wings, slithering tails, and branching antlers through the clouded windows and the swaying curtains.

They said the magician lived alone, and then these strange shadows appeared.

They said the magician took in three orphaned children, siblings apparently, but all believed they were bonded by words rather than blood.

Fire took away their home, and men took away their family. Each stripped from their parents at an infantile age, and each raised by this sinister creature that were not of their own.

Three small children that Byron found petrified and huddled beneath the snarling of a metal beast with smoke bellowing from its gaping maw.

 _Monsters_ , was what they were. Awful monsters that will flourish into terrible disasters in due time.

It was their fate.

The beast reared and a barrage of iron and fire expelled from its slobbering mouth.

And Byron took away the monsters to call his own.

* * *

Dabbling in the occult on a regular basis, he never saw them as monsters. Not originally, at first. He saw them as his children. His sweet children who could outgrow their beastly nature with enough nourishment and love. Their razor-sharp fangs and talons, the leathery pads on their hands and feet, the slit in their eyes, the venom that spewed from their maw, the way they slithered and crawled—but mustn't be designed for that sole purpose, right?

That lust for blood or a desire to kill inherit in their kind were not ingrained into their personalities yet because they were so young in his eyes. They were confused children to him, and he believed they could suppress those tendencies, if not teach them that their skills could be better utilized.

And so, he took care of them as though they were not monstrous by nature—as though they were human children first, and demon hatchlings last.

They were young and moldable. It took less than a barrel of hours for the feral, snarling youngsters to accept Byron as their benevolent caretaker. Affectionate and afraid and hungry, the three orphan children latched onto the magician in no time.

But like any good father, it came to a time where he had to feed them. He had to feed them the only sustenance that could fill the belly of a demon child, and as he examined three pairs of small, glimmering eyes along with the cries of an infant barely a few months old, he knew he had to find them something.

 _Anything_.

"Come a decade and they’d be blood-thirsty monsters!" cried the men as they staggered away with not enough blood on their hands.

"Nonsense!" cried the magician, shielding those monsters in the shroud of his cane.

And even when he gave them their crimson meal, he never viewed them as true monsters.

He saw only a set of small children being given their portions in life. He saw an older child wrangling his own away from the other with his budding wings sprawled outward in an aggressive display, and a younger one crying and sobbing as he deemed his stomach unsatisfied. He saw a baby whimpering softly after crying for hours on end due to an empty stomach, and now his eyes laid gently closed as he suckled on a rubbery nub; gnarled mews emitting from his stuffed maw and plumped his cheeks.

They were not monsters, he wanted to believe.

They were his children, he had to believe.

* * *

He would never describe the choices he made in life as anything but moral or right. He was a man who dipped his curiosity and grief in powers far beyond his comprehension, and he paid a hefty fee for those choices. He committed crimes he would rather forget, and he defiled the laws of nature for his own selfish gains enough times, all of which haunted his sleep, all of which marred the flesh over his bones.

But Byron liked to believe that he could handle it, because he was Tron, the magician that utilized chaos, the powers of the underworld, the powers of the otherworldly Barians.

Personal demons—his children—should be of no concern to him.

They're just _kids_ , he muttered.

Seven, four, one.

A ripe and tender age that Byron harvested at just the right time to raise as his own. He had no intentions of his own for the three—perhaps let them grow and fester until their wings blossomed, but then they would leave the tower to smite the villages nearby. He would teach them the arts and sciences, the humanities, the basics of alchemy and the role of the cosmic and chaotic powers of the universe, and then they would use their knowledge to lure unsuspecting maidens and lords into their fangs. Oh, to be a father was tough.

He never considered him a father-figure despite being beloved himself, once upon a time. Yet how could he abandon these juveniles on the baseless argument of their intended nature.

They didn't need to become monsters, Byron convinced himself, and he didn't want them to be monsters.

"Daddy! Daddy! Look! Mikey finally got fangs!" The second one pattered about one day. He was hollering at the top of his lungs with a bright smile over his maw brimmed with incisions; he held the tiny child in his scaly, trimmed claws.

Byron had just returned from the market with their daily rations, and all he could do was pat them on the head with a warm smile and feint words of excitement.

Fangs. Talons. Horns. Scales and leather. Little by little they grew. He couldn't deny their heritage.

They feasted on the blood he offered. They leisured in it.

As he held onto his youngest child, the least monstrous of the trio so far, cradling him in his arm with his other hand grasping the bottle of a vile fluid, who laid still and eagerly nipped and suckled the container until nothing remained, he wondered:

Will his small baby turn into a demon as his kin?

A demon that lusts for blood; this chubby-cheeked, innocent-eyed, plump child with minor stubs protruding out of his gums?

A demon, is that what he will become?

All of them—demons.

His eldest son, Christopher. Mature and quiet, controlling, yet also very tender and caring towards his younger brothers. He acted older than he should, but Byron never blamed him for his trauma. He followed the magician loyally, understanding the circumstance of the situation but always holding an air of discontentment for something malicious dwelled under his skin.

His middle son, Thomas. Rowdy and reckless, a stout troublemaker among the good apples. He knew the limits within this household despite listening and doing as he pleased. His moxie was his best and most charming characteristic, but Byron feared his fate the worst because of this. There was emotionally instability in the boy; perhaps he knew the circumstance of this situation but lacked the insight to think beyond the walls around him.

His youngest son, Michael. Young and sweet, angel-like, he loved to giggle at his brothers' attempt to contend him. However, he was surprisingly needy and required constant attention to be satiated. He was so young; he must not understand the circumstance yet, and Byron intended to keep it like that against the words of the eldest.

All of them—demons…

No, they're not.

They're not.

They were smart kids. They were bright kids with a promising future that didn’t involve a bullet in their skull or holy water searing their flesh and blood to ashes. But they were held back by the elongation of their fangs, the thickening of their hide, the soulless pierce of their gaze.

Nonetheless, he raised them through the coldest winters, shielded them away from other humans, fed them only beasts of burden.

Everyday.

Three pounds of blood for three normal children.

He might have overfed them.

They wanted more eventually. Not more blood because they weaned past the need for only blood.

But something else riled their bodies and tapped into their instincts.

"Dad, why can't me and Michael go outside and play?" Thomas asked one day as he stared longingly out the window. The skies were clear, and the sun shined brightly above them. Birds chattered and flapped overhead, and in the distance within the confines of the thick veil of forest, a small village could be seen.

Byron pried him away and slid the thick curtains over.

Christopher, Thomas, and Michael were their names. The circumstance of their birth foretold three disastrous demons out of their innocent hearts. Their destiny as monsters—blood-thirsty, heartless, cruel monsters.

And Byron was unable to stop it because he locked his door at night.

* * *

Fifteen, twelve, eight.

It begun.

Out of loneliness, perhaps. Perhaps, the ticking clocks in their body reached the end of the line, and the floodgates opened.

It begun.

Tron was a magician that utilized chaos. His powers were limitless as long as he offered the fibers of his soul with each miracle, each curse. He could create tsunamis out of a pond. He could rip the mountains in half. He could darken the skies with sleet and hail and tornados and storms, forming droughts and floods on a whim. He created life out of death. He could plunge the world into chaos by freeing the Barians, entities far worse than the beasts that currently patrol this tangible world, from their prison had he lacked the desire for all life including his own.

He could perform plenty.

But he couldn't see himself doing it.

He couldn't see himself taking away their gentle smiles because he saw only children before him, small and young and naive and so undeserving of the cruel circumstance of their birth.

He didn’t have it in him to punish them for a fault not of their own.

They simply followed their instincts. Byron understood that if he had to understand anything about them. They followed their instincts, and it snarled at them to leave the nest. It desired the outside air, the scent of fresh blood, the exhilarating thrill of stalking prey and rending it to shreds. But instead, they fidgeted in their seats as their fangs reared in anticipation.

It was subtle, yet it was enough to advise Byron to act. To say anything that would quell their worries, or find them remedies for innate instincts, or even…

He didn't act.

He didn't act until Thomas threw a tantrum because his hidden frustrations pushed him to his limits, and Michael was crying because he didn’t understand why everyone was yelling, and Christopher was desperate to keep his brothers behaved despite the growing pangs inside him. Even Christopher who fully understood his nature and his father’s intentions struggled with the sensual voice whispering within his head.

It was unfair that Byron kept his children like that. Unfair that he deprived them of the warm sun and fresh air and the human interactions that might’ve aided in their growth away from their legacy because he was afraid of losing them to man or to nature. It was unfair that he didn't know what to do once they lost control of their minds, and the children he raised will succumb to their barest instincts.

He didn't know.

Until Thomas and Michael left in the middle of the night.

Until he found them with their tails between their legs.

And blood all over them—some were their own, but most weren’t.

He wondered if he should've done something then and there. His little children, his rambunctious Thomas and angelic Michael who gave in to their blood-thirsty instincts to revel as demons. It was in their hearts at the core of it, and he wondered if his efforts were in vain from the beginning. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how he raised them, nothing could prevent them from ending up in a barn with blood dripping from their maw, the body of a victim torn in a sickening and horrendous fashion.

Christopher’s only hope were them. Christopher would lose his grasp on humanity if anything happened to them. Christopher would try the unfathomable, and then Byron would have to…

He held his chaos-infused cane in his hand, and he felt a sudden hysteria pour through his veins as he grappled the scope of this atrocious situation, choosing between ending the life of the children he raised to spare his sanity or allowing them to maul him on the spot.

In the end, Tron was a magician, and he had three monstrous sons.

Nothing will ever change this.

He made sure of it.

* * *

Byron regretted a lot of things.

In regards to his boys, maybe the first was allowing the three children to live that fateful night. Perhaps their souls would be happier if they perished that day instead of living the restrained lives they currently live.

Aside from that, their entrance into his life left him exposed. He cherished their smiles and laughter. The ways their innocent eyes lit up in excitement, and the way they used to greet him before he…

He laughed with them then.

The second regret was failing to save them from their fate. He should’ve known better than to provide them with their daily poison that nurtured them into evil, and he led them on without a hint of concern.

Three pounds of blood for three special boys.

The third was not freeing them when he had the chance. They were afraid. They were disorganized to the point where he could've taken them before they realized it. They didn't know what they did was wrong. They truly didn't. They were only kids, and they were only doing what they assumed was correct.

And now, he trapped them in a fate worse than death.

The final… 

He loved them, he truly loved them as a grief-stricken parent loved their children, and he refused to let them leave one way or another.

All three of them—Christopher, Thomas, Michael.

He tore their souls from their bodies and tossed it into the crimson-soaked maw of that deity.

Fangs and claws.

How could he regret saving them?

No bark. No bite.

Transforming them into servile puppets of the otherworld was a fate far worse than they nor anyone could ever imagine.

It allowed them to live, didn’t it?

He dragged them off the path of destruction; however, the sheer cruelty of his actions would’ve made the Barians chortle in joy.

Byron regretted a lot of things, but he simply couldn’t regret that damning choice.

* * *

"Those are Tron's kids."

"Don't look. I hear they smell fear."

"The resemblance in elegance is striking, I’d say."

"Kids, eh? Those three bastards look little like that conniving bastard."

"Haven't seen Tron in a while."

"He sends his kids to do his dirty work nowadays. Man became mad at some point. Poor fellow."

"Mad! I’d be damned mad if I raised three monsters!"

Monsters.

Stubbed claws gripped their cloaks, pulling it over their stunted horns and bounded wings.

"Monsters without malice ain't no monster."

It was a sad fact.

"Malice? Plenty ‘ah malice in them boys."

“Ignore them, brother,” the eldest one uttered to the next in line, and as he spoke through the corners of his lips, his teeth bared for a mere fraction of a second to reveal a pitiful moment of his life.

Twenty, seventeen, thirteen.

Tron's children that he raised and loved with all his heart.

V, IV, and III were their names.

"Ahah! Rumor has it that Tron took in demon babes and raised them as his own. Crazy bastard."

A gnarl erupted from the second tallest one. Sparks of bygone flames oozed from the edges of his snout as the hidden spines along his body rose in agitation. His blunted claws coiled into a fist while his face scrunched, baring his teeth.

"Demons?"

The smallest one grabbed his brother’s wrist before yanking that raised fist downward, scolding him that they were here to gather ingredients, not start fights.

But everything was aggravating him, and the brothers wished these bystanders would stop before he lost control again.

"Uses them for a fright. No one messes with a man with nasty demons under his belt."

"Nasty? Haven't ya heard? The bastard—"

A body lunged through the air. Fists flew as the second one—always unstable which was worsened by his lack of freedom—gave into his horrid temper.

Screams and cries of monster, monster!

But he didn't stop because no monster would be patrolling about with his wings bounded by the will of the Barians. With his flames reduced to smog and sparks. With his talons reduced to nothing but tiny nubs. There would be screams and cries that people should stick their noses out of the business of others, and that Tron would never use them for such a petty reason – that Tron truly does love them – that Tron—

The brothers pried him off while he hissed and snapped uncontrollably. They bowed their heads as they thoroughly and sincerely apologized for the behavior of the rage-ridden teenager.

And in the process, they opened their mouths to reveal it—stubs. Stubs where their fangs should be.

Then the crowd snickered and jeered at this trio of defanged demons.

Harmless!

They had little power in their own right.

They pulled a hood over their heads in shame and went on their way to fetch supplies for father like the good boys they were, fuming and humiliated at themselves, at their existence.

"It isn't fair!" The second would complain.

Because a monster without its bite was not a monster at all.

* * *

Family was all they have left.

"Even if you hate me, please do not leave." Tron's lullaby to the children he saved and the children he destroyed.

"Even if we hate you, we will not leave." They sang back in a begrudgingly somber tone.

Because Byron took in the monsters and raised them as humans.

Because Tron took in the demons and surrendered them to the Barians.

Their hearts were stained with malice. There was a lot of malice in them. Yet this malice had direction. It was not born from the taunts of the villagers, nor from the stones they threw; although, it stung and prickled. Their malice belonged to Tron, the disfigured magician who dwelled at the gates between heaven and hell. Tron, who exchanged the remnants of his soul to save his demons in the most despicable of manners. Tron, who they hated and despised, yet whose approval they sought after the most.

For Tron was kind as much as he was selfish, and his sons were spiteful as much as they were loyal.

His children were the first he trusted, and somehow the last.

Against his better judgement, Tron treated his sons as though they were his sons, true and proper. As they were his kin, they inherited the role of his apprentices. The great power of the Barians that caused the disfigurement of his body after his great sacrifice…

Many would question his decision.

Blood-thirsty animals! He could hear them now. Giving three soulless demons the chance to perform magic, and not just any magic but one of the strongest forces out there. Crazy! Insane! That Tron truly has gone mad!

Mad? Why, of course.

He would chortle back.

He gone mad the day he accepted those three, small children into his heart.

He would be mad enough to grant them a suitable replacement for their lost bite.

For even if Tron lacked a perfect heart, he was not the destructive force of nature the village-folk made him out to be. Mad as he was, he will not swoop as low as the entities presiding over him, waiting in the shadows for their time to strike. He was still human, somewhere past his skin.

His sons will not be trained as heartless killers, he laughed. After all, what sacrifice did he make if his end goal was to transform the subdued demons back into monsters—the only difference will be that they were fully aware of their blood-thirsty actions.

No, he will teach them to be wise and formidable users of chaos. It will be a means to defend themselves and to make use of themselves.

They were, after all, the sons of Tron the magician.

And what kind of father would not inherit his powers to his children—children with a lust for blood no longer?

As the years passed, they grew mellow about the situation. The past was the past, and only a miracle could change that. The boys lost that inherit nature that called them to slaughter; the fangs of death removed from their heart, but at what cost? They may still hate him for what he done, and he accepted that they will never forgive him, but they grew more at ease with the lessons and tasks he offered them.

Or maybe they scented Tron’s true intentions on teaching them the way of the Barians. They were smart children, now young adults, and they must’ve realized it at some point.

It will be challenging, nonetheless.

Even for the cold Christopher, always so serious and stern.

Even for the tempered Thomas, constantly reckless and arrogant.

Even for the manipulative Michael, skillful and witty under his gentle smile.

It will not be easy to kill a God, but Tron knew his sons were up for the task.

**Author's Note:**

> maybe an au i'll expand on one day
> 
> (\\_/)  
> — (o.o)  
>  (___)0


End file.
